


Picking Up The Pieces

by Silikat



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Nonbinary Dean Pelton, Set in S3/early S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silikat/pseuds/Silikat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Craig Pelton wakes up in a basement with no way of getting out. But it's okay, because someone is going to notice he's gone before too long. Surely.<br/>Months later, he is released to a life half empty, and he has to recreate himself to stay afloat. Jeff Winger isn't a good safety net, but he's all Craig has, and if he can't cling to the study group then who can he cling to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up The Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched all of Community last month and now I'm writing angst fic because I'm trash. Oops. Anyway, here's 8k words of rambling about the Dean, who I've gotten really weirdly attached to.  
> Warnings for: internalised transphobia and homophobia, some small mentions of violence.

On the first day, Craig wakes up on the floor and wonders how he got there.

It isn’t the first time he’s woken up mostly unclothed on the floor of a basement, with a fuzzy memory of the night before. And, knowing him, it probably won’t be the last. But everything feels different this time. It is cold, far too cold, and his head is pounding, but not in the way it usually does. This time, it just hurts.

He sits up, pushing himself forward with arms that ache from the exertion, and looks around him. Everything is fuzzy and indistinct, and he gropes around for his glasses, which he finds on the floor next to him. He blinks, slipping them on, and looks around once again. Definitely some kind of basement. But it isn’t somewhere new. Something about the grey walls and electrical paraphernalia that surround him seems familiar, in a way he can’t yet place. If only his head would stop pounding for one second and let him concentrate. He groans, massaging his temples, trying desperately to remember.

Then it all comes back, and he tips his head back with a grunt.

His hand slides over his chin, to the small puncture mark where Chang’s tranquiliser hit him. Where did he even get that, anyway? Internally, Craig grimaces. He probably should have been keeping a better eye on what Chang was doing. He is the Dean, and one of his employees essentially created a child army while he wasn’t looking. Sure, it was a lot easier (and cheaper) than hiring actual security. But it was never going to be a good idea.

Now he isn’t playing ball, so Chang thinks he can just replace him? Like that’s going to happen. He is the Dean of this school, and he is not going to stay trapped down here for long.

Craig pauses in his thoughts for a second, one hand still self-consciously tracing his jaw. Is he actually trapped? He hasn’t tried the door yet. He gets himself to his feet and gives the door an experimental push, then a quick pull. Nope, definitely locked. And nothing on this side of the door that would unlock it, either. Briefly, he wishes that he knew how to pick locks, not that even that would help him much. There’s nothing around that he could pick a lock with.

He turns away from the door, his shoulders slumping. Great, just great. But it doesn’t matter, he thinks with a small chuckle. Maybe his fantasies about being rescued by Jeffrey will finally come true. He’ll pick up Craig in his over-muscled arms and carry him out of here, punching Chang straight in the face while the rest of the study group look on and cheer. And Craig will be so overwhelmed that he’ll kiss him – not intimately, just on the cheek, and Jeff will look at him and smile, for once, instead of rolling his eyes.

The idea cheers him, even as he sits down again with his back to the wall. It won’t be long before someone notices he’s gone, he thinks. He just has to wait it out.

On the second day, he actually sees another person. Not anyone he knows, unfortunately. He thinks it might be, at first. He wakes from a confused slumber as a shaft of light is thrown across his face, back stiff from having to sleep on the floor, and blinks at the silhouette in the doorway. It looks, for a second, like it could be Annie, and her name forms prematurely on his lips. But the figure steps forward and it’s just some kid, one of Chang’s army, holding a tray. The kid looks no older than thirteen, and she smirks at the sight of Craig, before putting the tray on the floor and flouncing out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

He scrambles around for his glasses and squints at the tray. A sandwich, some kind of candy bar and a glass of water. He picks up the sandwich and sniffs it. PB&J. Not exactly nutritious, but his stomach is growling from a whole day without food, and he wolfs it down before he even registers what he’s doing. Has it really only taken a day of isolation to get him acting feral? He thinks that he should be worried about that, but he has bigger things on his mind right now.

Stretching, his back clicking, he stands and looks over himself. He’s a little grubby, his arms marked with red patches from where he’s been resting on the floor. His t-shirt smells of sweat and dirt, which is going to get uncomfortable very quickly. His feet feel like blocks of ice, and he stamps them a little, trying to warm them up. It’s too cold in here, he muses, looking over to the giant fan in the corner of the room. If he’s honest, he’s not certain what this room is even meant to be. He’s pretty sure that he’s never been down here before.

The day is mostly spent looking for a way out. Even though he knows that someone’s going to come and get him out soon (and why _wouldn’t_ they, they’ve surely noticed he’s gone by now), there’s no point waiting around to be rescued like a Disney princess. That would be pretty fun, though. Idly, as he begins to search the walls for some way of escaping, he wonders which princess costume he’d look better in. Eventually, he decides it’s either Jasmine or Cinderella. He decides that he’ll have to get one of those as soon as he gets out.

Less fruitful is his exploration of the room. There aren’t any unlocked doors, windows, handy vents; no openings that he could crawl through. He considers knocking out the next kid that comes with food and making a break for it, then pretends he’s rejecting it on moral grounds. (Actually, it’s because those kids could probably kick his ass from here until Thursday.) As far as he can tell, there’s no way out for him. Not unless somebody unlocks the door.

On the third day, Craig realises just how boring captivity is. He’s not even totally sure that it is the third day, given that he doesn’t have a watch or a phone, and it’s not like there’s a window down here. All he did after he gave up on escaping was sit on the floor, daydreaming and wondering until he slipped into sleep; waking with his back to the wall, his body curled into a ball as he shivered the night away. At least they’ve given him a camp bed now, but that doesn’t make sleeping down here any more comfortable, or that much less cold.

What gets to him is the silence. There is no noise unless he makes it – and he gave up calling for help a while ago, when his throat started going hoarse. The only thing that’s left as he sits here is the slight rasp of his breath in his throat, the thudding of his heart in his chest and the corresponding pounding of blood in his ears.

All he does is think, and the only thing that occupies his mind is how hungry he is. Over three days, he has only eaten two sandwiches and a candy bar or two. His throat is dry and his stomach is growling at him, to the point where it’s starting to hurt. Most of his time, he’s spending curled up against the wall with his arms around himself, trying to keep warm and stave off the hunger pangs. He knows about nutrition, he’s been on diets before. That is totally not enough calories for him, even if all he’s doing is just sitting on the floor and moping.

Then, just when he thinks that his day can’t get any worse, Chang shows up, flanked by three of his child soldiers.

He bursts open the door like he’s breaking in, and Craig jumps because it’s the loudest noise he’s heard in a while. His hand flies to his heart and he finds himself gasping for air, which just makes Chang chuckle in that supervillain way he has. He’s wearing a Napoleon costume, for some reason. Craig feels a quick flash of irritation, because dressing in weird costumes is _his_ thing, and how dare Chang steal even that from him.

It becomes clear, pretty quickly, that Chang’s just here to gloat. Over what, Craig isn’t exactly sure, but Chang doesn’t seem to either, delivering a confusing monologue about how he’s a much better Dean already than Craig ever was, that he’s turned Greendale around completely, that nobody even noticed that Craig has gone and things are so much better already. Craig doesn’t say much, just staring off into a corner and trying not to listen.

Chang, however, seems to see that as a challenge. He walks in closer to Craig, still flanked by the kids, and places a finger under Craig’s chin, tilting his head up so their eyes meet. Chang is smirking, and Craig shudders in a way he never would for Jeff, because it just feels _wrong_. He is beginning to shrink up against the wall, and to look at it from the outside it would be completely ridiculous, being physically intimidated by some diminutive wannabe dictator in an absurd outfit, but he’s becoming acutely aware that Chang pretty much has the power of life and death over him right now, and when a man has you backed into a corner like that then there’s really nothing you can do. Chang’s voice, shouting now, washes over him as he squeezes his eyes tight closed, wishing with all his might that Chang would just shut up already. He’s shouting the same things, over and over, and they bore into Craig’s head like a drill, these words about how bad he is at his job, how he’s ruined people’s lives, how much of a freak he is.

Then, just like that, it ends. The pressure of Chang’s finger on his chin ceases, and he opens his eyes to see them striding out of the room. It’s not until the door closes again that Craig lets out a breath that he didn’t realise that he was holding. He didn’t think he could be so glad to be alone until that moment.

Chang does the same thing over the next few days, but it isn’t too long before he stops completely. He’s never been known for his attention span, really, and it’s not like Craig is giving him all that much in the way of reaction. Even when Chang uses the opportunity and the fact that he’s running out of things to gloat about to insult Craig personally, to laugh as he squirms beneath him. Chang, he discovers, has a gift for finding out exactly what will hurt Craig the most; echoing the insults and criticisms that have followed him from the schoolyard, from the living room in his parents’ house, from the lips of old friends and ex-boyfriends until Craig is just about ready to crack under their weight. Any retorts he have fall limply to the ground between them. Because Chang can just laugh it up, go back upstairs to the school and his office and forget, while Craig is left behind to brood.

Then Chang stops coming, and he is on his own again. Craig worries that Chang has forgotten him completely, that he will stop sending food and just let him starve to death, but the kids keep showing up with their trays and for that, at least, he is grateful. Not that the food he’s given gets any more nutritious. He hasn’t seen fruit in days. He begins to wonder what would happen if he got scurvy or something, alone in the darkness of a dusty basement. Would anyone notice? Jeff would, he thinks desperately. When he comes on his rescue mission. Jeff would notice, and Jeff would fix things. That’s what Jeff does, fix things.

It’s the seventh day before he begins to realise that nobody’s coming for him.

There is logic behind that thought. A week has passed. If somebody was going to notice that he was gone and do anything about it, they would have done so within a week. Surely. And it can’t be that hard to outsmart Chang. He’s Chang. He gets distracted by dust particles sometimes. If anyone wanted to bust him out, they could do it in seconds.

But he’s still here, and the only conclusion he can come to is that nobody’s actually coming. Because if nobody has cared enough in a week, then nobody’s going to care in two. Or three. Or a month. Or…

How long can Chang keep him down here, anyway? That’s something that’s been lurking at the back of his mind for a while. Exactly how long is this going to go on? He can’t keep him down here forever. Even though he totally could, if he wanted to. After all, nobody’s noticed so far.

(And he’s trying not to entertain the thought that, maybe, this is it. His life depends on Chang sending kids down with food trays, but as soon as the usurper’s mind starts to wander and he forgets about Craig, then he is in trouble. He doesn’t know how long a person can survive without food, but he knows it isn’t long. Then he remembers he’s being morbid, and chastises himself. Maybe the best he can hope for is Chang getting arrested, and somebody finding him in the aftermath. Considering where he is right now, he’ll take it.)

Craig taps his knuckles against the wall, looking over his admittedly spacious basement cell and musing that if he has to look at anything else that’s grey, he’s going to lose his damn mind. The air around him is stale, and he hasn’t had a shower in a week, and he knows he looks disgusting. He feels it, too. He can just tell that he’s even paler than usual, and though he’s never been an active person, he misses the outside. Wrapping his arms around himself, all he can think is that his life can’t exactly get much worse at this point.

Then he loses all track of time. It passes too slowly and too quickly when you don’t have access to a clock, and he sleeps now more than he used to, anyway. There aren’t a lot of other things to do down here. Just sleep, and eat, and think. It’s the last one that he wants to avoid. Craig had always hated that moment, between sleeping and waking, when his mind dragged out all of his fears and mistakes for him to see. Now, it seems he’s living in that moment, and all his brain can tell him is how much of a fuckup he must be, because everyone’s abandoned him to the clutches of an unstable wannabe-warlord.

And he doesn't cry, because he's an adult. Then he does cry, because he's an adult who's been locked in a basement for probably weeks without anyone realising or coming to help him, and if you can't cry over that then what _can_ you cry over? His grandmother used to call him a sensitive soul (if there's a part of him that remembers what his father used to call him, he's burying it deep down) and he's never been afraid of showing his emotions. So he cries, and he’s not ashamed. It’s not like anyone can see him, anyway.

Later, sitting with his back to the cold basement wall, he finds that he’s still lost in his own head. He's beginning to think about the things Abed keeps saying (and why is it always Abed whose words end up resonating with him?) about them being a TV show, and life being a story. He's never paid it much attention, because deep down he knows that if this is a TV show, then he's far from being the main character. He's been trying to at least be memorable, the quirky side character that all the fans love, but he knows it's not going to happen. That at best, he’s a joke. At worst? Easily forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, and he couldn't be any further out of sight right now.

He has poured his life into being The Dean, and now somebody else is filling that role without anybody even noticing. Is _that_ what he is? Replaceable? But even as Craig thinks it, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him what he doesn’t want to know. It’s true. He’s a smile, and a bad pun, and a gaudy dress. He’s a laugh and a wave of the hand and a curly wig, and if there’s anything underneath then nobody has ever noticed.

It’s not his fault, the way they see him. They think he’s dressing up, that he’s playacting or pretending. Everybody has always thought that, as far back as he can remember. It isn’t, but he can’t explain what it actually is. There isn’t a word that he knows for people who think they look great in a pair of heels and a miniskirt, or a cowgirl outfit, or a Victorian-style gown, without necessarily being women. He has thought about it, in the past, but the label fit as loosely as ‘man’ does now, and he doesn’t know of anything else in between. Besides, he doesn’t really want to broadcast his gender struggles all the way across campus. Nobody would really care about the ongoing identity crisis of Dean Craig Pelton, after all. He just wants to dress the way that feels right in the moment, and if that means making up reasons for why he’s wearing a custom-made little black dress or a catsuit, then so be it.

He can’t deny that he feels strange, sometimes. In himself. He looks in the mirror most mornings and sees not a stranger, but someone who is not-quite-him, who could be him but for all those little telling details. Something in the way he holds himself, or the pale colour of his cheeks. Something in what he’s wearing, perhaps, or in the line of his jaw, or the look in his eyes. Whatever it is that day, it’s the kind of feeling that makes him want to ignore mirrors, at least until he can get to his makeup stash. It isn’t always feminine makeup – often, he just uses the bare minimum, knowing that he can’t exactly go into an official board meeting with a full face on. Even if it would look just right with that suit he’s been meaning to try out.

Craig closes his eyes and rubs his hand over his chin. The mark from where Chang tranquilised him is long gone now, but something arguably worse has taken its place. It’s been a while since he’s had access to a razor, and his jaw is covered with a thin layer of stubble. He winces as his fingers touch the coarse hair, the feeling of it too rough on his skin. He’s always hated having stubble; he learned to shave pretty much as soon as he hit puberty. It was one of the first things that gave him that strange, shameful feeling inside, the feeling that he had to change the way he looked or just avoid mirrors, because he was disgusting. So he learned the subtle arts of beautifying himself, and as it turned out he was a natural.

Up until recently, he kept it private. Well, it’s not the sort of thing you _do_ , is it? But after a long list of failed community colleges that ended up spiralling down to Greendale, something inside him just screamed ‘fuck it’. There was a transition period, of course, but ultimately…it’s Greendale. People just went with it, the same way people just went with all the blanket/pillow forts, or the madness that goes down whenever someone even mentions paintball, or that unfortunate incident with all the cats.

When things had settled, a little, he found himself being grateful for it. Greendale may not be the best campus on Earth, but it seemed to accept him for who he was, sexy fireman outfit and all. Now look where it’s got him.

He wonders, sometimes, as time ticks on and he grows even more maudlin, if he deserves this. If it's some kind of punishment, divine or otherwise. For what he is. Whatever _that_ is. His grandmother always told him that if he kept carrying on the way he did, he was going straight to Hell. And for the first sixteen or so years of his life, he believed her. That was a fun conversation with his first therapist.

But as he’d grown older, even as he went to college and started to experiment with boys and clothes and makeup, he was always looking over his shoulder waiting for the retribution to come. Because he _is_ different. He’s not so oblivious that he hasn’t noticed that. And different means wrong, at least in most people’s eyes, but he kept on doing it because it made him so happy. And now he’s sitting in a grubby t-shirt on the floor of a basement, alone, because the man he hired to be his security turned out to be a usurper leading a child army. Great job, Craig. You nailed adulthood there.

That’s about the time he stops all the introspection, and starts the flat-out denial. Because it’s fine. Everything is fine. No, really, it is.

He spends his days carefully crafting a little puppet out of pencils and a fork and a juice carton, and calls it Jeffrey. Because he knows, as long as he’s with Jeffrey, he’s safe. He doesn’t know why that study group holds itself together, through the infighting and the pettiness and the frankly ludicrous things that they do to each other, but he can place a safe bet that it’s the influence of Jeff Winger and his oddly rehearsed-sounding speeches. So many times, that group would have fallen apart, were it not for Jeff standing up at the last minute and telling them why they shouldn’t. So many times, he’s seen that dysfunctional little family pick up the pieces because of what Jeff has said.

And if Jeff Winger can heal them, maybe he can help Craig too. Right now, when he needs it most. It should be easy for Jeff; he doesn’t even need to really be there.

He starts talking to him, mostly so that it isn’t so deathly quiet down here. He imagines him so much that one day, he turns to see the ghost of Jeff standing across the room, wearing his signature disparaging look and giving him the best “I told you so,” that he can muster. And Craig feels like crying again, because it has been weeks since he’s heard a voice that isn’t his own, even if it’s all in his head. So he starts babbling, telling Jeff’s ghost everything that he can think of, asking him what he’s been up to and imagining what the study group might be doing right now, while they’re going about their lives not even noticing that Craig isn’t in them. And Jeff replies, in little snatches of thought that sound about right in Jeff’s voice. Because Craig knows how Jeff talks, after three years of borderline stalking him, and imagining a conversation with him is so much better than just waiting for nothing to happen.

(And it doesn’t even matter that this version of Jeff, this phantom that he has summoned, can be so much crueller than the real one – harsher words cutting deep, little snarky asides touching on the things that would hurt Craig the most, things the real Jeff didn’t know and has no business knowing – because it’s better to talk to a ghost that knows all of his fears and failings than to be completely alone, right?)

It’s still not the same, but it’s something, and it gives him something to do that isn’t just sitting and moping and wondering, and if that means he looks like he’s lost it a little bit then who’ll notice but him? The only other thing that can see him right now is the security camera on one of the walls, staring down like the eyes of God. He’s pretty sure that Chang’s watching him occasionally through it, why not give him a show? He doesn’t have anything left to lose.

Then, after months of sitting in the cold and the dark, it happens. He is set free.

It doesn’t happen like he daydreamed it – shirtless Jeff Winger riding in on a white horse and scooping him up is his manly arms. Although that fantasy certainly helps to pass the time while he is trapped. No, it comes in a sandwich, and a note that he almost swallows. He smiles as he reads it, deciding that its large, clear handwriting probably belongs to Annie. It takes a second of staring at it before his brain registers what it’s actually saying.

The study group is coming. And he has to hide.

So he ducks into an alcove, still holding his puppet Jeff in one hand, and doesn’t come out until he hears the door open. His heart is racing – after all this time, will he finally get to see the real Jeff? – but as he bounds from his hiding place, it’s Britta who stands there, dressed for some reason as a kind of gothic clown. He can’t hide his disappointment, and she looks offended, but he really doesn’t care. Because Jeff is coming, and he’s getting out.

Later, when Craig looks back on it, he thinks that he could name that moment as the happiest he’s ever been, striding down the corridor with all of the study group behind him, Jeff Winger shirtless and smiling at him and wearing far too much eyeliner. For once, he’s a part of this – their little community of freaks and fucked up people – and he couldn’t be happier.

And Chang suddenly appearing to mess everything up (again) can’t put a damper on his joy for long. Even if his heart skips a beat as they are cornered, led back into that room that was his prison for, Annie tells him in a whisper, almost three months. Even if his hands begin to shake and his heart pounds as the door is slammed shut again. Because Chang can’t keep them _all_ down here for long, and at least this time he won’t be alone. The others all have people who care about them enough to go looking if they disappear.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long for them to get out. It never takes this group long to worm themselves out of trouble, and he even gets to help this time! And as the corridors go dark and the music begins to blare around him, Craig can’t help but start dancing, he’s so giddy. It isn’t long before the day is saved once more. He’s pacified the school board, and Chang is gone, and the school isn’t going to blow up.

“You guys saved me,” he says, and he can’t keep his voice from cracking just a little bit. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Jeff smiles, and puts his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “You already have,” he says, and to Craig’s ears it’s as beautiful as “I love you.” But then his body seems to realise that _Jeff is voluntarily touching him_ , and he just about faints. Because, at that moment, everything is right with the world.

The aftermath isn’t as pretty. The first thing he does is check if anyone had been paying his rent – turns out, it was too much of a long shot. He drops his stuff off in boxes at his parents’ house and tells them he’s staying on a friend’s couch until he can find a new place. They don’t even ask why he got evicted. The fact that he was out of contact for two or three months passes by unnoticed; it isn’t as though that’s something unusual. They just take everything he says at face value and he leaves as soon as he can get away with, the cross on the wall watching him as he walks out.

He’s not staying on a friend’s couch. He had thought about asking Jeff, but he knows how that conversation would go. Best not to push his luck when he’s finally got something of a positive relationship going with him. Or, at least, Jeff seems to have forgiven a lot of the shit he’s done in the past. That’s more than he could expect.

So he takes to sleeping in his office. Well, he starts by staying up, wandering the streets at night, going from bar to bar in the vain hope that he could rely on the kindness of a stranger. But then a man in a club has his hand around Craig’s neck, and he is remembering a dark room with only the noise of the fan for company, and everything seems too loud and too warm and too bright, and he runs out into the freezing night with a lump in his throat and a wetness on his face that he swears isn’t tears. Because everything is back to normal now. Even if he’s technically homeless.

His office is smaller. Quieter. And if he happens to wake up shuddering, with a half-formed scream on his lips, then there’s nobody around who will notice or care. And most of his clothes are in his office, anyway.

He tries one more time, slipping out while the noise and lights of Academania are roaring and flashing around him. He even begins to enjoy himself a little bit. But when a shouted confession goes entirely unheard in a crowded corridor (he doesn’t even know why he told them – he was supposed to keep it secret – unless he knew that nobody would really be listening), that pit of loneliness bubbles up in his chest again, and he ends up in the office once more, curled up in his chair and trying not to think.

Craig tries not to think so much, now. He’s had his share of introspection, thank _you_ very much.

But specifically, he is trying not to think about Chang, living in the vents and stealing food from the cafeteria, lurking in closets and appearing when you least expect him. He’s gone now, after all. He can’t still be up there. But every time the vent in the office rattles with…something, he can’t help but jump in his seat, staring up at the air ducts like a frightened rabbit.  If even an unexpected shadow passes him, he yelps and starts and has to sit for ten minutes just to keep his heart from racing. And if he breaks down, just a little bit, there’s nobody around to judge him for it. That can only be a good thing, right? So long as he’s chipper as ever during work hours, nobody cares how he’s coping.

Well. That’s not entirely true.

Shirley left a cupcake on his desk yesterday. He knows it was her because, really, who else would be leaving cupcakes on his desk? And he saw the rest of the study group just after, all with similar wrappers in their hands. She looked over at him and smiled like he wasn’t an abomination in her eyes, and he smiled back even though the icing had a cross on the top. He still ate it. It was a really good cupcake. He doesn’t think she’s left him her baking before. It’s a little gesture. It’s more than he deserves.

Annie’s been helping a bit with paperwork, here and there. When he doesn’t look like he can handle it. She keeps insisting that it’s fine, that she enjoys it, and maybe that’s true but Annie wants to be valedictorian and she’s working herself far too hard. He is ashamed that he lets her, really, except he really does need the time to try and un-ruin his school, and every little thing helps.

Britta caught him on a corridor a few days ago and offered her services as a therapist. It’s a daily occurrence, but she said it with a soft enough voice and a sympathetic look. He said no, prior experience and current fears being enough to make him dread the idea of therapy, as well as the knowledge that she would probably ask the same thing the next day. But when he walked away, for some reason he couldn’t quite place, he did it with a smile that was more genuine than it has been these last few weeks.

Troy and Abed have never really been the kind of people for kind little actions, but he noticed that they cleaned up the chaos of their latest childish endeavour (Fire tennis! It’s like tennis, but with fire!) without being asked last time, which is as much as he could ask for. Even Pierce hasn’t directed any homophobic comments at him recently, which he used to do no matter how much Craig protested that he wasn’t _gay_ , exactly, that wasn’t even half of what he was.

And Jeff? Jeff…doesn’t seem to have changed, exactly. Which is fine. Craig doesn’t expect anything from him (the ghostly memory of a hand on his shoulder that had him in a genuine faint is more than enough), but something in him still hopes that Jeff might do something nice for him. A man can dream, can’t he? But over the weeks, he can’t help but notice a softening in Jeff’s expression, a loosening in his shoulders, the lack of rolled eyes whenever he enters the room, and Craig supposes that that’s good enough for him. Because Jeff Winger isn’t really the sort of person who does nice things for other people, not really. At least, not that he’d admit.

Day by day, he is picking up the pieces. Not everything is as nice as it could be. Most people don’t acknowledge what Chang did in front of him, looking away and changing the subject if it comes up. They seem to be content to pretend that the last two or so months didn’t happen, which is all very well and good for them, he supposes. But he still wakes up every night with the ghost of that basement hanging over him, and its effects are going to last for longer than he’d like.

It takes a good week before Craig wears anything more daring than a polo shirt. He’s not entirely sure why that is. Never one for the long and horrific process of psychoanalysing himself, he elects instead for just getting on with his work like he hadn’t been locked away for months without anyone noticing.

But one night, alone in his office, he finds himself going to his closet and looking back in at all of his clothes. He runs his hand across the hangers, remembering the long hours he would spend putting together an outfit for whatever excuse he had manufactured this time. The action is oddly soothing, the feeling of the cloth beneath his fingers and the slightly musty smell of the closet luring him closer. He selects the outfit carefully; nothing too outlandish, a green dress in the style of a fifties housewife and a chestnut wig that matches the colour and looks about right for the era. He changes with his eyes closed, and when he opens them again there’s another person standing in the mirror in front of him.

There’s a strange feeling in his chest, something not unlike sadness. He cocks his head to one side, looking himself up and down. Too many times, he’s hated this mirror for what it showed him; a person who’s not enough of anything to even be called a person. But that isn’t it, this time.

It feels like he’s dressing up, he realises with a jolt. He stuck himself with the shirts and ties for long enough that he’s become unused to his favourite clothes. He’s been so focused on remaking himself as the Dean that he’s lost something along the way, something vital. He’s become not even half of who he is, and just the idea is enough to make his hands tremble as he smooths down the skirt, the fabric strange on his fingers.

So he leaves it. He changes back into his shirt and tie, and leaves the closet door closed until he feels like opening it. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like it today, he thinks. It isn’t every day that he feels more comfortable in skirts and dresses. He has all the time in the world now to reclaim that part of himself. But that doesn’t stop him looking back to the door handle, wishing that the answer to all of his problems is behind it.

Before long, closing doors becomes a habit. It seems like no time at all, but he soon realises that he’s been sleeping in his office for a long time, and he’s definitely got enough money to get a new place by now. It’s another responsibility, looking for apartments, but Greendale is pretty much back to normal and he can expend the time. And it’s not too long before he finds the perfect place for him.

He rents a condo next to Jeff. It’s a natural choice. Not because he’s terrified of change (although that might have been a factor), but because hearing the low rumble of Jeff’s TV through the wall, the indistinct sounds of his footsteps and voice as he talks to someone on the phone, helps keep Craig’s mind focused in reality. When he wakes up thinking that he’s back _there_ , he can reach out and touch the wall, and feel the vibration from Jeff’s apartment. It’s not much, but it grounds him. Because Jeff Winger might be an asshole from time to time, but he came back to save him, even though he didn’t really get anything out of it. Because he could be safe with Jeff.

Of course, he never tells Jeff about that. He knows he comes on too strong, too much of the time. So he makes jokes that border on stalking him again and pretends that everything is normal, just like it always was. He dresses up in a Hunger Games-inspired outfit (with a sense of relief as he looks in the mirror and sees himself, smiling, feeling right in his clothes again), and he dances a tango and acts like his usual, wacky self in the hope that people would notice him and remember him, and treat him like they always have – with derision, yes, but at least if they’re deriding him then he exists in their eyes. Fake it until you make it, he tells himself, and he’s faking it enough that his life has basically become a performance art. And Jeff rolls his eyes and grumbles, but Craig doesn’t care about that, because he’s just playing his role.

People think he’s over it. Annie stops helping with office work – it’s gone down to a manageable amount now, he doesn’t really need the help, but he’ll miss their little conversations. Students and teachers don’t give him those little nervous smiles any more. He’s stopped being that guy who was locked in a basement for months, and started being the weird guy who runs the school again. It’s his job. And nobody could ever accuse Dean Craig Pelton of not doing his job.

Is he over it? He’s not sure. He still hasn’t gone back to that particular part of the school, the part which, ironically, he probably knows better than any other now. He still jumps at little noises and smiles like he’s on a stage. But on the other hand, he’s been sleeping better recently, and when he’s had nightmares, they were more likely to be about giant centipedes attacking him than cold, dark rooms and monsters in the vents.

One day, he catches Jeff out in the corridor while he’s going out to buy something. He doesn’t even notice him at first (and how unthinkable is that, given the way he acted last year), he’s far too engrossed in his thoughts and almost walks straight into him.

“Don’t try and pass that off as an accident, Dean,” Jeff says, and Craig looks up with a start, his heart jumping both out of lust and fear.

“Now, Jeffrey,” he says, quickly trying to think of something to say that doesn’t make him sound like a total creep. But the seconds pass and he’s drawing a blank, so instead he settles for “You know it’s Craig when we’re not at Greendale.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. A ‘Craigular Joe’, right?” He scoffs, and Craig can’t help noticing how gorgeous he is when he’s annoyed. “Spare me the puns. You’re just as bad as Chang.”

Craig’s breath catches in his throat, and time goes still around him. He doesn’t know why hearing the name should upset him so much. It’s been months. He should be over it. But he is breathing far too fast, and the air is warm around him, and his palms are beginning to sweat. Jeff’s face is frozen halfway between a snarky comment and a question, and is Craig imagining it or is there a hint of concern there? No, there can’t be. He isn’t worth that. Things are back to normal now.

He swallows, trying to appear as casual as he can, but words are failing him and instead he shrugs, with a smile that he hopes doesn’t look as forced as it feels, and slips back through his door without another word.

The next day, he avoids Jeff as much as he can. Well, he has a lot of things to do that would keep him confined to his office, and it’s not like he ever had a legitimate reason to barge in on them all the time. Mostly, he just wants things to not be awkward. He messed up the night before, letting his issues out into the open. He let his guard down, forgot that he’s Dean Craig Pelton and nothing more. It won’t happen again, he thinks.

But, since he’s trying to hide from him, it’s almost inevitable that he comes face to face with Jeff Winger once more. Ironically, it’s when he almost bumps into him again, this time coming back from the cafeteria with whatever the least terrible sandwich that he could find was.

“Hey,” he says, and Craig’s shoulders tense slightly, hoping to whatever deity would take him that Jeff wasn’t going to bring up what happened the previous night.

“Oh hi, Jeffrey,” he hears himself saying, his mouth on autopilot, an automatic smile on his lips. “What’s up?”

Jeff shrugs, with his usual cool affectation of apathy. “Need to ask you a favour, actually,” he says. Craig’s heart skips a beat, and he mentally chides himself for thinking that Jeff Winger could need him for anything. It’s probably just him exploiting Craig’s position as Dean _again_ , and Craig will let him because he’s a pushover, and that will be that.

Jeff clears his throat. “Abed found some dorky game that’s he’s insisting we all try out, and somehow they’ve all invited themselves all over to my place to play it tonight. But we need eight people for some reason, and I can’t think of anyone else who’d want to waste a perfectly good Friday night on this nerd stuff, so...”

It isn’t quite an invitation. And Jeff seems to find it physically impossible to get through without at least one eye roll per word. But Craig understands, and this time his smile reaches his eyes.

“I think I could help you out with that,” he says.

Jeff nods. “Cool. Be round at seven. Bring booze.” And with that, he is gone, and Craig is left holding a plate and wearing a slightly love-struck grin, because Jeff Winger just voluntarily asked him to come to his apartment and life couldn’t get any better.

(Later, sitting in his office, he tries not to think about that kid Neil, and the Dungeons and Dragons game that he knows the study group played with him, and the smiles that Annie and Shirley wore that felt like they were drawn onto their faces. He had overheard Neil later, in the cafeteria, saying that he’d been more uncomfortable than anything. Like they thought they were saving him, but he just suspected that they were making themselves feel better. The thought ticks away in the back of his mind, but he dismisses it, knowing that ultimately, it doesn’t matter.)

He shows up at five past seven with a bottle of rosé that he found in the fridge, and Jeff is prepared with a curled lip and a scoffing tone, but there is something soft in his eyes and Craig’s smile doesn’t hurt his mouth, for once. The others greet him with a cheerful “Hi!” and a row of smiles that look genuine, and because they apparently have to stick to their little seating plan, Craig finds himself next to Jeff. His every instinct screams at him to find every excuse to spend the night fondling his perfect Greek-god torso, but he promised himself he would be on his best behaviour tonight, and feeling up Jeff really isn’t good for their fledgling friendship. So he just smiles, and tries not to look too desperate.

It feels strange, to be around people outside of work again. He hasn’t really done any proper socialising since he got let out; too busy with work, as well as everything else. Plus, it’s not like he has a whole lot of friends to see. He knows people, sure – casual acquaintances, friends-with-benefits, occasional fuckbuddies – but no actual friends. Not until now.

As Abed leans forward, launching into what was to be an incredibly convoluted explanation of the rules of whatever they were supposed to be playing, Craig realises that this is the first time since the basement that he’s had the chance to be _himself_ around people. Not the Dean, not their expectation of who he’s supposed to be, just him. And that person is apparently someone who plays weird games with his friends on Friday nights. Who’d have thought it?

Nobody quite understands the game, but after a few drinks that ceases to matter. Jeff finds some scotch somewhere, Britta brought a bottle of vodka, Pierce, Troy and Abed have a bottomless supply of beer and Craig and Annie share his rosé, everyone getting tipsier and tipsier with each passing hour. Pierce falls asleep on the couch around ten, and everyone pauses what they were doing to see who can come up with the best thing to draw on his face. In the end, it’s a tie between Jeff writing ‘World’s Lamest Lightweight’ on his forehead and Annie’s surprisingly detailed penis doodle on his left cheek.

Somehow, they end up playing ‘never have I ever’ until the crack of dawn, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Craig didn’t even know there was anything left about him that could shock the study group, but apparently they’re all more vanilla than he’d thought. Although he totally called Troy’s affinity for ‘butt stuff’ years ago, just saying.

He leaves as Jeff is finding a blanket for Pierce and a chair for Britta, given that nobody was sober enough to drive home (other than Shirley, who had left an hour ago because she had to be up in time for her kid’s soccer practice). He has Abed propped up with one arm and Annie leaning on the other shoulder; there was no way they could all sleep on Jeff’s floor for the night, and he has enough space for a couple more people. Besides, any excuse to pull out those fluffy blankets that he always saves for when he’s feeling down. He tucks one around the half-asleep Annie and gives the other to Abed, before turning in himself.

When he wakes, they’re still there, Abed flicking through channels on his TV and Annie beaming at him with a fresh mug of coffee in each hand. She made them all breakfast, partly as a thank you to Craig for letting them sleep in his front room. He tells her not to worry about it, and takes the proffered coffee with a grin. Thirty minutes later, they’re back at Jeff’s, waking Britta up from her position sprawled across Jeff’s couch, tearing Troy away from the cartoons and hauling Pierce to his feet before piling the lot of them into a couple of cabs home. Annie and Troy wave at him from one of the windows, and he raises his hand in response, giving them a self-conscious little smile.

Then it’s just him and Jeff, and Jeff claps him on the back and tells him that he’s going back to bed, he’s never up this early on a Saturday. And Craig is still smiling, but for once it feels real, and as the two of them head back upstairs he’s not even that tempted to stare at Jeff’s butt, although he does sneak a peek or two. Jeff mock-salutes him as he goes back into his apartment, and then it’s just Craig and his thoughts.

The smile doesn’t even slip from his face. In fact, it just broadens, as he picks up the blankets that Annie neatly folded and returns them to their drawer and switches off the TV that Abed had tuned to SyFy. He sits on the couch, head cradled in his hands, running the night back in his mind. Two years ago, all he ever wanted was to be this close to Jeff, to all of them. Now he’s living next to Jeff and having a games night with the group. If he went back in time and told himself that, he’d call himself a liar.

Craig knows that healing takes time. That he’s not going to be okay immediately. That it’s impossible to bounce back from something like this after just one night with friends. But now, for possibly the first time in months, he thinks he’s going to be okay. Because after all of that, there are people out there who have his back, even if they don’t regard him as being quite one of them yet. He won’t be forgotten and left alone. He can get over this. He knows it for sure, this time.

And the next day, he takes out the trash in a cute little puffy skirt.


End file.
